The Green Lady
by vandevere
Summary: A Green Lady...
1. Chapter 1

The Motel Desk Manager-Clancy Hayes-was bored. The small TV on the counter didn't have much to offer, and the radio was on the fritz. No customers seeking shelter for the night, nothing to watch, listen to, or read.

_Another soul-crushingly boring night…_

Hayes sighed. Then, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming up close. Unlike all the other-very rare-traffic on this twisty, all-but-deserted road, this one didn't pass the motel by. It stopped, parking in one of the parking spaces.

_A customer? A real, __**honest-to-goodness**__ customer?_

The man who entered the motel looked like your standard conception of a Texan, tall, lean, wearing Stetson, jeans, denim jacket, and shades.

The man looked exhausted, in some kind of pain, movements stiff, body rigid.

"I'd like a room, please."

His voice sounded Texan too, husky, deep. But Hayes could hear the stress in the man's voice.

"You okay?" Hayes asked. All kinds of people came up and down this road. Some of them worse than others.

"I'm fine," the man chuckled mirthlessly, holding out his ID. "Just need a room for the night."

Hayes squinted at the ID.

_A Bounty Hunter…Joseph Rogan…working out of LA…_

Rogan's hand trembled slightly.

"You're not high or anything?" Hayes asked as he returned the ID, suddenly suspicious. He'd had stoned customers before. They always left the room a wreck.

Again, that mirthless chuckle.

"No…" Rogan sighed. "It isn't catching either…"

"Bad burrito...?" Hayes hazarded a guess.

"Something like that…" Rogan sighed again as he paid the bill up front, and Hayes handed him a key for Room 112.

"It's right over there," the Desk Manager pointed helpfully

…..

Once inside the privacy of the small two-bed room, Alamo Joe Rogan's shoulders slumped wearily. His entire body hurt, from head to foot.

Eric Cord was having it worse, though…

Sighing, Rogan took off his jacket, tossed it onto a nearby chair.

Eric Cord's transformation was only just beginning.

Linked as he apparently was, Rogan had no choice but to experience the feeling as the other man's muscles begin to tear, to reform.

Shivering, Rogan made his way to the bed, lay his hat, keys, and sunglasses on the table.

_Eric Cord, somewhere out in the nearby forest, lies curled up, almost in a fetal position, bones, muscles, and flesh, shifting, reforming. Arms and legs elongate, form extra layers of padded muscle and sinew, claws sprouting from lengthening fingers and toes, as coarse dark fur grows all over. Nose, mouth, and jaw, extend outward, form a snout. Human teeth recede…Fangs take their place…_

Rogan lay down on the bed, shivering uncontrollably. Even at a remove, the pain of the transformation, the…_agony_…was unbelievable.

_How the hell does he stand it?_

Then, off in the distance, Rogan could hear the bestial howl. The transformation was complete, the Beast awake and ready for the Hunt…

_Hope Cord doesn't do too much harm tonight_

…..

_He's alone, looking out over a flat plain, gray clouds in a sunless sky overhead. Alamo Joe turns, looks in all directions. The uncut grass goes on, as far as the eye can see._

_**Why am I here? What am I supposed to do?**_

_There's nothing to do but move. Go forward._

_So that's what Rogan does, walking through waist-high grass. Abruptly, he comes across a clearing…_

_She stands there, in the glade, blue sky, and yellow Sun shining down upon her slender form._

_**It was cloudy just a second ago…**_

_The woman is tall, clad in a long, white, sort of Greek-looking robe; and Rogan might have considered her beautiful; if she wasn't green…_

_Grass-green hair tumbles across pale, lime-green skin; and emerald-green eyes stare at him._

_**I see you…**_

_Her lips don't move, but Alamo Joe hears her voice just fine._

_**Come find me, **__the Green Lady's voice enters his brain. __**Come find me…**_

Alamo Joe Rogan jerked awake.

_What time is it?_

The clock on the bedside table said _7:03 AM_, and the early morning Sun was doing its level best to shine through the closed window drapes.

Rogan pulled himself together, collected all his stuff, left the room.

The same Desk Manager-Clancy Hayes-was still sitting at his post.

"Feeling better?" he asked as Rogan returned the room key.

"Yeah…" Rogan nodded. "Thank you."

"There's a guy came in a few minutes ago," Hayes added. "He was asking for you. Said he'll be waiting outside."

_Eric Cord…_

Rogan nodded his thanks, headed outside.

There Eric Cord was, leaning against the GMC's hood.

"You okay?" Cord asked.

"I'm fine," Rogan replied. "How about you?"

"I'm good. Where do we go?"

_It's back to business as usual…_

"I'm going to stop at the first town we enter, call Armonni, see if he's got anything for us. He always does…"


	2. Chapter 2

_LA_

After a few weeks of research, Andrew Cole finally located a link to Alamo Joe Rogan. His old friend had proven surprisingly elusive. One might have thought the Bounty Hunter had dropped off the face of the earth.

_Except for his connection to Eddie Armonni._

Cole found his way to Armonni's office. The Bail Bondsman was on the phone as Cole waited patiently.

"Yeah…" Armonni was speaking into the phone. "Caleb Yates is a real piece of work. He's got the whole deal…Robbery, Assault, and multiple murder. You, and your Associate bring him in, you'll net a cool fifteen grand…Be armed though…Like I said, he's a _real_ piece of work…. Yeah…I know…Just take care. He's a nasty one. I'll fax everything over to you. Where are you now?"

Armonni wrote something on a crumpled-looking _Post-it_…

"Yeah," he spoke again. "I'll fax everything over ASAP."

Armonni put the phone back in its cradle.

"Hey!" he stood. "Nice of you to wait."

"Eddie Armonni," he held out a hand.

"Andrew Cole, out of Houston," Cole shook the proffered hand. "I've been trying to track an old Air Force buddy; heard you might know the guy. Joe Rogan…Alamo Joe to his friends."

"Wow…" Armonni laughed. "Talk about coincidences. I was just on the phone with him when you came in. Speaking of which, I need to fax his job details over to him. If you want to wait a bit?"

"Sure," Cole nodded. "I can wait here while you do what you need to."

Armonni nodded, hurried off to the Fax machine. While his back was turned, Andrew Cole leaned over, took a quick peek at the yellow _Post-it_ lying face-up on Armonni's messy desk.

_Tangled Gulch, Sheriff's Office_

_Hm…I've been there before…_

It had been a messy case, ten years ago, a…sordid one too. A wife had thought her husband was having an affair with another woman.

She was half right.

There had been an affair. But the lover had been a man. And _her_ boss.

_And how everyone managed to keep __**that**__ secret-until I came along-is an enigma I'll never understand…_

"Done!" Armonni's voice brought him back around. "You knew Alamo Joe back in the day?"

"Yeah…" Cole nodded. "We were both pilots before we joined the Air Force. Loved flying, being up in the air."

"Tell me more," Armonni suggested. "Rogan never talks about himself…"

…..

_Tangled Gulch_

"According to Armonni, this Caleb Yates is bad news," Alamo Joe Rogan looked over at Eric Cord. "So, you'd better be packing heat for this."

Eric Cord nodded. He had taken the courses Rogan had suggested, had gotten the firearms license. Now, he was an _official, all-forms-signed _Bounty Hunter.

Not quite the career he had originally planned for himself…

He had his gun, in a shoulder-holster, under a denim jacket.

Now, they were parked near a small diner, a _Mom-and-Pop _operation just on the outskirts of town. Yates could be seen through the window, sitting at a booth, chowing down on a heaping helping of _chili con carne_

"We'll wait until he comes outside to detain him," Rogan had announced. "Don't want a repeat of what went down at _Paul's Roadhouse…"_

_No…we don't,_ Eric Cord agreed.

Especially if that meant Alamo Joe getting shot again…

Fortunately, the wait wasn't long. Roughly thirty minutes later, Yates paid his tab, then exited the building, heading for his rusty-looking truck.

"Yates!" Rogan was already out of his car, shotgun out, cocked, and ready.

Cord positioned himself to block Yates' escape route back into the diner.

Fived minutes later, Caleb Yates was handcuffed, and packed into the back of Rogan's truck. A twenty-minute drive later, he had been delivered into the custody of the local Sheriff, and all was done.

Now, all Cord and Rogan had to do was wait until the check cleared, and they could move on to the next case…

…..

Nicholas Remy was perplexed. That was a feeling he wasn't really accustomed to, and he didn't like it.

"Are you _sure_?" he growled at one of his thralls, a new werewolf, one who had only been a member of the Pack for around five years.

"Yes!" the young man cringed as he spoke, anxious to avoid Remy's wrath.

"That old fart wants Rogan? Not Eric Cord?" It didn't make sense. Why would Harmon Teller, a man apparently obsessed with immortality want Rogan, and not a werewolf, with all the attributes of a werewolf?

"I don't know, my Lord," the younger man groveled. "As far as Mr. Teller knows, I'm just a lowly gardener. He doesn't worry about what he says in front of me. He said to his doctor that it was _Rogan_ who had immortality on his blood, and that he wants it. Maybe he doesn't know Eric Cord is a werewolf."

"But that does beg the question…" Remy sat at his desk. "Harmon Teller is no fool. Where did he get the notion that _Rogan_, of all people, is immortal?"

"Think there was a shooting…at a roadside diner…" the young man spoke timidly.

"A…_shooting_…" Nicholas Remy regarded the young man. "Find out what happened. We cannot act if we don't have information…"

The young man scurried off to do Remy's bidding. Remy sat there, thinking.

_Perhaps there's more to the Bounty Hunter than I expected…_


	3. Chapter 3

The Green Lady 3

_Campos Verdes_

"Green Fields my ass…" Alamo Joe Rogan commented as he parked his truck in a parking lot by the local sheriff's office.

The town lay in the center of a miniature dust bowl, not a hint of greenery to be found anywhere, except for pathetic-looking little semi-gardens out in front of the small houses they had passed coming here.

"You speak Spanish?" Eric Cord asked.

"Some," Rogan turned off the ignition. "It helps in my line of work."

"What's going on here?" Eric Cord got out of the truck.

"Don't know." Rogan looked around. "Looks like a festival…"

People were busy putting green wreathes up on the streetlights, on windows of homes and businesses.

There was also a large poster on the side of a local bank, and Alamo Joe went still at the sight.

_A young woman wearing flowing robes, green of hair, eye, and skin…_

He had seen her, or someone very much like her, in a dream once, not all that long ago…

"Rogan?" Cord's voice brought him back. "You all right?"

"Yeah…" Rogan locked the truck, turned to the Sheriff's Office, just in time to meet the Sheriff as he was coming out.

"Well hi there!" the man looked to Rogan and Cord jovially. "Sheriff Monte Walsh. You're here just in time for the festival!"

"The…festival?" Cord asked.

"Yeah…_the Feast of La Santa Dama del Maiz…"_

"The…Holy…Lady of the Corn?" Rogan hazarded a guess.

"You speak Spanish?" the Sheriff looked amazed.

"Some," Rogan cast a sardonic look in Cord's direction. "I'm Joe Rogan, my associate is Eric Cord. We're Bounty Hunters out of _LA._ Was hoping I could use your office phone and check in with my Bail Bondsman, Eddie Armonni."

"Not for the next couple of days," Walsh apologized. "We only have the festival around every fifty years, so everything pretty much comes to a halt during Festival Week. For folk hereabouts, it's bigger than Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter combined. You're welcome to stay for the duration. It's a fun time, food, rides, and at the end, the Mayor chooses the Queen of the Corn."

"If she's Queen of the Corn, why is she _Green?"_ Eric Cord asked.

"Let's go across the street," Walsh said. "And I'll tell you guys the story over coffee."

…..

_Enrique Santiago, our Mayor explained it to me. He said, Monte, my friend, this here Festival is what a Roman Catholic would call a __**Christianized Pagan Ritual…**_

_Of course, back in the old days, before the Conquistadors, and other White Folks came here, the natives sacrificed their Queens of the Corn, in order to insure a bountiful harvest._

_We do things differently now. Last Queen of the Corn went to Hollywood, to make her name in pictures. Don't know if she made it out there. But she never came back, so maybe she found something after all._

…_.._

Much to Eric Cord's surprise, the small inn's prices were quite reasonable; cheap, even…

And it was a _proper _inn, with a cozy little restaurant-specializing in Tex Mex-on the ground floor.

"We can afford it," Rogan had said. "And there's nothing wrong about taking a week off. Just remember to be careful, Cord. If you have to…Change…get away from town,"

"I think I'll be able to hide in your truck," Cord had agreed. He was fairly sure the Beast trusted Rogan-and his truck-enough by now.

Just one thing bothered him.

"Rogan…is anything wrong?"

"No. Why?"

"When you saw that poster on the wall, you looked like you had just seen a ghost."

"No, Cord," Rogan had sighed. "I'm fine…"

…..

Damn, but Eric Cord was one perceptive sonofabitch. Not much Rogan could do about that.

_Except maybe not to give myself away…_

That poster of a green lady. He had seen her before. She had spoken to him, had said three words.

_Come find me…_


	4. Chapter 4

The Green Lady Chapter 4

The _Feast of La Santa Dama del Maiz_ was now in full swing, the entire town shut down for the duration, with rides, clowns, and all sort of festival food predominating.

Everyone was having a grand time, especially the children. Alamo Joe Rogan, though, felt distinctly uneasy.

Today was the festival's culmination. The Mayor, Enrique Santiago, had just chosen the new Queen, the _Holy Lady of the Corn…_

At sixteen years of age, wearing pristine white robes, Maria Ayala was just about as pretty a little thing as Rogan had ever seen. But her skin had been painted green, and that was either a wig she was wearing, or someone had taken the time to dye her long locks green. Even her eyes were green…

"Colored contact lenses," Eric Cord stood next to Rogan. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," Rogan muttered as the girl was paraded around the main town square.

_How can I tell him I've seen a green girl in my dreams, every night? How can I tell Cord she told me to find her?_

…..

Late that night, at the inn, Eric Cord sat on his bed. Ever since Julian Farrow had…done what he did, Eric Cord often found himself…keeping watch…over Alamo Joe.

_Farrow infected him with my blood. He has a Werewolf's blood in his veins…_

Rogan had all but promised that the day he Changed would be the day he killed himself.

Rogan hadn't Changed, thank God, hadn't turned into the Beast. But he hadn't escaped entirely unscathed.

Spells of fever that came and went without warning… there were times where he _knew_ things. Things he couldn't possibly have known.

_And there was that time someone shot Alamo Joe dead right in front of me, at that Roadside Diner…_

Rogan had come back from that, come back from being as dead as the proverbial door knob, as impossible as that seemed.

No…Rogan hadn't changed into a Ravening beast. But, no matter how much he, or Cord, wanted to deny it, Rogan _was_ changing.

Into what? Eric Cord didn't have a clue.

Right _now_, was a case in point.

Alamo Joe was curled up under the blankets, shivering, but not from fever this time. He was apparently in the grip of a nightmare, twitching, muttering softly to himself.

Eric Cord found himself wondering what to do.

_You're not supposed to wake them up. Or is that sleepwalkers?_

Fortunately, Rogan solved Cord's dilemma by sitting bolt upright, wide awake.

"You okay?" Cord spoke cautiously.

"Yeah…" Rogan drew in a shuddering breath, scrubbed his face vigorously. "It was just a bad dream."

"About a green girl?"

Rogan went utterly still.

"How did you…" he rasped.

"Come _on_, Rogan!" Eric Cord scoffed. "I saw your face when we first saw that poster. And then that girl. What the hell have you been dreaming?"

Cord had never seen fear in Alamo Joe before. He saw it now as the older man looked up at him.

"I saw a green lady," Rogan spoke softly. "She told me to find her. _This_ dream, she told me _where _to find her."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"What if it's true?" Rogan finally broke that silence…

"She showed you where to look?" Cord asked.

"Yeah…"

"Okay," Cord stood. "Get up. Let's go there, and see what's what."

"You're serious?"

"Yep. If it's nothing, it's nothing. If it's something, well…Either way, maybe it will stop this nightmare from happening again…"

…..

_2 AM_

"This is idiotic…" Alamo Joe Rogan muttered softly, flashlight out, scanning the area. He and Eric Cord was on the outskirts of town, GMC parked by the side of the road.

In his last dream, the _Green Lady_ had taken him by the hand, her grip gentle, but firm, as she had led him to this place by the side of the road, the same place he and Cord were now standing at.

"Did she point out any specific place?" Cord asked, playing his own flashlight across the area.

"Yeah…Over there…" Rogan moved over to where the Green Lady had led him.

And, right then, he felt the ground give way under his feet; impact putting a whole galaxy of stars in his eyes, knocking the air out of his lungs.

"_Rogan!"_

Stunned, he didn't really hear Cord's voice. It was all he could do just to breathe.

"Rogan?" panic in Eric Cord's voice.

"I'm okay…" Rogan managed to force just enough volume into his voice to be heard. "Gimme a minute…"

He was lying on his back, in what looked to be a crudely hollowed-out chamber, looking up, at the chasm he had just fallen through.

_Something _rattled and…scrunched…under him as he moved, tried to roll to his feet.

The best Alamo Joe could manage right now was hands and knees, looking down at the ground he had been lying on, looking down at the fleshless skull grinning back up at him…

He had landed on a pile of bones. Skulls, arm bones, leg bones.

_Jesus…_

_A mass grave…_


	5. Chapter 5

The Green Lady, Chapter 5

Alamo Joe Rogan stood in the hollowed-out chamber, moonlight from above, from the gaping hole he had just fallen through, shining down upon a pile of bones…

Rogan had been having this nightmare for at least a week now.

A woman, green of hair, eye, and skin.

_Come find me…_

It looked like he had.

That pile of bones though…

_Too many bones for just one body. Looks to be around ten maybe…_

"Rogan?" Eric Cord calling down from up top. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Rogan took a deep breath, let it out. "There's a pile of human bones down here. A mass grave…"

He looked around, seeking his flashlight. There! Off to the left, next to one of the lonely-looking skulls.

"I'm coming down," he heard Cord's voice from above.

"Be careful," the Bounty Hunter warned. "It's a bit of a drop."

As he spoke, he bent to pick up his flashlight and flicked it on.

As Eric Cord carefully found his way down, Rogan panned his flashlight over the assembled skeletal remains.

There was some rotted cloth there too, and, even under the suboptimal light, Rogan could see the cloth had been green.

"Damn…" he muttered. He heard Cord come over from behind, swung his gaze to the other man. Eric Cord, for his part, surveyed the site with wide eyes.

"Your Green Lady?" he asked. Rogan snorted.

"More than one," he swung the light over the site. "Maybe upwards of ten…"

That chilled him.

_A serial killer…_

"Think I've found a tunnel here," Cord's voice brought Rogan around. Yes. A gaping hole in the rock, and there was the feel of a far distant breeze.

_Maybe it leads somewhere. Maybe even to whoever put these bones here…_

…..

It was a narrow little corridor, with walls, and floor, of natural rock. Eric Cord took point this time, Alamo Joe just behind, both taking extra care to be quiet. After ten minutes of silent walking, the corridor came to an abrupt end.

"Where's the door?" Eric Cord muttered softly as he stepped up to the wall, began feeling around the featureless-looking gray rock wall.

He heard the _click_, as his fingers found the all-but-invisible button, and the rock wall slid away.

Now he could hear weeping, sniffling, and a girl's whispering voice, offering half-hearted prayers to the Holy Mother, praying for delivery. For rescue…

The room looked like it had been carved out of the living rock, with bulbs in wall sconces giving out its harsh light. A stone table lay dead center, and that's where the girl was.

The Festival's Queen of the Corn.

She had been fastened to the stone table, wrists and feet secured tightly.

Her tear stained eyes widened when she saw them. Rogan held his hand up.

"Shh…" he whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Poor kid closed her eyes, shaking hard, tears leaking from closed eyelids.

Cord looked down at the girl.

"Someone was going to sacrifice her," he whispered.

"Not this time," Rogan muttered softly as he drew out his hunting knife. It didn't take much work to saw the ropes off.

As he worked to free the girl, Eric Cord looked around the room, seeking an exit.

Freed, the girl clung to Rogan, and it didn't look like she was going to let go any time soon.

"Stairs…going up," Cord pointed the entry way out. "Unless we want to try going back the way we came."

"You bring any rope?" Rogan retorted. "Because I sure didn't."

"The stairs it is…" Cord agreed. Again, he took point.

The trio carefully crept up the stairs, the girl keeping a death-grip on Rogan's arm. Fortunately, the stairs were stone too.

_No wood to creak under our feet, and give us away…_

The stairs ended at a stout wooden door.

…..

Rogan listened as the door slid open silently.

_Thank God, don't want a creaky door announcing to everyone that we're here…_

Even at this time of night, there were some lights shining in the house they now found themselves in.

_Old money_, Rogan thought as he took the furnishings in.

Polished oak tables, ornately carved wooden chairs, Arabian carpets. Shelves, full of ancient books lined the walls. There was even a chandelier, with real, _lit _candles overhead. Whoever owned this house was wealthy.

"We came up from the basement," Rogan whispered. "Where's the nearest exit?"

"Think it's this way," Eric Cord began to move, Rogan, and the girl, following.

A gunshot rang out, striking Cord in the back, flinging the man down to the floor.

"Let go of the girl," Rogan knew that voice. He had been at the Festival as Mayor Enrique Santiago chose the Queen.

At the Festival, he had looked to be in his forties. A vigorously attractive man, with thick black hair, graying at the temples, and a pencil thin mustache.

Now, a mere five hours later, he looked at least forty years older, bags under his eyes, skin suddenly parchment thin.

He trained his gun on Rogan.

"Give the girl to me," the mayor ordered. "_Now. _Or I'll splatter your brains on my nice, and easily replaceable carpet."

_Damn…_

But there was sudden pain, knifing its way up his body; and he knew what that meant...

_Never thought I'd be grateful to have a werewolf for a friend…_

Rescue was coming. If Rogan could find a way to buy some time…

"You look awful." He said to the mayor. "what the hell happened to you?"

Santiago chuckled softly.

"_That's_ your final request?" he asked. "To hear the story of my life?"

"All right," He shrugged. Then, he spoke again.

"I was a _Conquistador. _ I came here with Hernan Cortes, back when we Spanish ruled the Americas."

"So…" Rogan spoke. "You would be around five hundred years old?"

Santiago nodded, warming up to his story.

"I found the Font of Immortality," he said. Then his voice lowered conspiratorially. "It lives in the blood, you see. The younger the blood, the greater the gift. All I needed was a village. Just one little village."

"So, you started this festival, which gave you a pool of girls," Rogan nodded.

"No…" Santiago shook his head. "This festival came from before the priests, before even we Spaniards came here. It was their Old Gods. The ones they worshipped before. Every year, they would sacrifice a virgin to their Corn Goddess. All I take is one teenager every fifty years."

That was when they heard the guttural growl.

"What's that?" alarm in Santiago's voice. Rogan smiled thinly.

"You shot the wrong guy..."

A werewolf climbed to its feet, snarling at the mayor. Santiago fired at the creature, center mass, and Rogan knew how little good that would do.

_Only thing that'll do is piss Cord_ off.

Then Rogan heard…_something…_in his head. Not words per se. But definitely a command.

_Girl…__**Go!**_

Rogan didn't have to be told twice. Especially when the Beast's first action was to leap up, and…swipe…that magnificent chandelier down to the ground, lit candles landing everywhere, setting fire to delicate silken chair paddings, lighting up books on shelves.

_The place is going to go up like tinder…_

"Run!" Rogan grabbed the girl's hand, herded her out of the room, down a long, ornately appointed hall, out to what had to be a foyer, then out, into the crisp, clear night air.

He wanted to go back inside, help Cord, or the creature he was now, but the girl was clinging to him, crying in sheer terror, and he didn't want to leave her alone out here.

The place _was_ going up like tinder, sudden flames shooting up inside, clear to be seen through the wide windows.

And Rogan could hear sirens in the distance. Coming closer.

_Get out, Cord. Get out now…_

Two firetrucks, and a police squad car came up.

_That _was when the Beast chose to make its appearance, crashing through a window, glass and flames exploding everywhere.

"Holy Cow!" That was Sheriff Monte Walsh. "What the hell was that?"

Then, he paused, squinting at Rogan.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here, at the Mayor's house?"

Rogan kept an arm around the girl as the firemen set to work dousing the fire.

"Your Queen of the Corn has a tale to tell you," he said.

…..

At first, Sheriff Monte Walsh didn't want to believe the girl's story. But Alamo Joe Rogan and Eric Cord led him to the mass grave site, to that pile of bones, and the corridor that led directly to what looked like a stone sacrifice table in the basement of Mayor Santiago's house.

The County Coroner had looked at the bones, all female, and all young, under twenty.

The Mayor of Campos Verdes, a serial killer…

_Well…_Rogan sighed. _Not exactly…_

The People of Campos Verdes didn't need to know the truth. Mayor Enrique Santiago was dead, his body a wizened little charred-looking corpse…

Rogan was more than ready to put this little town behind him.

He was standing just outside the Sheriff's office, looking at the bank where he had first seen that poster of the Green Lady. Now, there was a blank window pane reflecting the street behind him. And, standing next to his reflected image, the young woman he had first seen in his dream. The one who had asked him to find her.

She smiled, and spoke. He couldn't hear what she said. But he could read her lips just fine.

_Thank you…_


End file.
